


Batman and Clark

by EllenD



Series: Intrepid [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 10:23:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6952816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenD/pseuds/EllenD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bunch of one-shot stories about the adventures of Batman and his boyfriend, a non-powered reporter Clark who loves to get into all sorts of trouble. Takes place in the Intrepid Series, but can totally be read as standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Furious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place sometime after Two Cities when Clark and Bruce are happily together and Clark knows about Batman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Batman is in a bit of a mess. Clark refuses to take any of that self-sacrificing nonsense and steps in to help. No copyright infringement intended, no profits made!

Batman exhaled slowly as the dust settled. His latest opponent lay at his feet unconscious but alive, with two cracked ribs and a mild concussion. He’d live. More were on the way, armed with automatic rifles and bad tempers.

Moving quickly, Gotham’s vigilante dumped the henchman with the others he’d dispatched, fired his grapple into the air, and flew 20 feet straight up through a hatch and onto the roof. The city was beautiful from the top of the old TV tower, but he had no time to admire the view. Quickly, he welded the hatchway shut with his blowtorch, then did the same to the door that led to the emergency stairs. It wouldn’t keep out Scarecrow’s men for long, but it might slow them down.

“Master Wayne,” Alfred’s voice crackled over the comm. “I’m reading a spike in radiation throughout the city. I’m afraid the weapon will be deployed shortly.”

“I know,” said Batman. “I have to destroy the antenna.” He had planted charges along the base of the towering transducer. An obsolete piece of equipment from the 50’s, it had been repurposed by Scarecrow to send a signal that would detonate multiple toxic bombs throughout Gotham.

“Charges armed,” said Batman, flipping the last switch.

“Good. Just enough time for you to vacate the premises.”

“Can’t,” Batman said flatly. “Remote detonator’s busted. I’ll have to set it off manually.” He looked out across the horizon. The sun was about to set. The first lights of the evening were winking on. “Not that I’m likely to get far, anyway.” Not with the Batplane across the city, helping to evacuate the bay area.

“Sir…”

Batman sighed. Going out in a blaze of glory wasn’t the worst way to die. It was actually better than he’d imagined or thought he’d deserved. From the sound of the frantic pounding and muffled shotgun blasts to the rooftop door hinges, he’d be taking about a dozen criminals with him. He regretted it, but saving thousands of innocent lives, especially the one life that meant the world to him, was worth the sacrifice. Even at the cost of his own.

“Alfred… “

“There must be another way.”

“There isn’t, old friend. If I don’t make it, would you tell Clark that I…”

“Sir, you can tell him yourself. He’s here.”

A flutter of hope in his chest. “Clark?”

“He’s right here… wait. Mr. Kent? Where are you going?”

There was the static-y sound of Alfred getting up and moving rapidly deeper into the Batcave. “Mr. _Kent_! Come back here. What do you think you are…? No, do _not_ touch that. That is _not_ meant to be operational.” His voice became markedly more frantic. “No, get _down_ from there, that is an unsafe prototype _stopthatohgoodlordwhatareyoudoing!”_

A roar of noise filled the comm frequency and left Batman’s ears ringing. “What the hell just happened?” he demanded.

After a moment of panting, sounding suspiciously as if he’d just tried to tackle someone and failed, Alfred responded, “Your young man is… deceptively athletic.”

He had no time to ruminate on Clark’s supposed antics when the rooftop door was blown off its hinges and Scarecrow’s henchmen poured out in an angry wave. He leaped for the detonation switch and was dogpiled by three men. He fended them off, punching hard into ribs, slamming elbows and knees into groin and throat, snapping his head back so that armored cowl met nose and teeth. The ones that were armed opened fire. Bullets pinged off concrete and armor as he rolled to his feet and dove for the nearest shooter. Brutally yanking the rifle from a dislocated shoulder, he used it to smash in another crook’s face. Before he’d even started contemplating the ethics of firing a gun in the current life-or-death situation, the mob of henchmen collectively shrank back and lowered their weapons, staring up with something like awe.

Not assuming it was because they’d suddenly decided to give up a life of crime and take up stamp collecting, Batman slowly turned to face the direction they were all looking.

Only to be blown nearly off his feet when the prototype Batwing roared through the sky like an avenging angel.

“Holy sh-!”

He dove for cover just as a hideous cacophony of crashing and screeching metal filled the air. The plan plowed through the length of the antenna, crumpling it like paper.  Scarecrow’s men all screamed and fled, or were crushed by debris.

When he dared to look up again, the antenna lay twisted on its side with the Batwing perched on top. The roof deck was scored with skid marks. Everywhere was littered with broken masonry and glass.

After a moment, the plane’s hatch popped and Clark’s curly head and skewed glasses peered out.

“Staff Sergeant Kent, reporting for duty,” he said dizzily, before detaching himself and stepping out, almost immediately falling on his rear in a nearby pile of rubble. He was at once the most beautiful thing Bruce had ever seen, and the most infuriating bastard in the known universe.

“Are you insane?” was the first thing out of Batman’s mouth. _You could have been dead, you idiot, I was willing to die to prevent that, you could have been dead, I love you, I love you, I love you._

He moved before he was aware of it, striding across the roof to grab the front of Clark’s jacket and heave him up and slam him against the nearest wall still standing.

They glared at each other for a moment. Clark’s chest heaved with each breath. His hands grabbed at Batman’s biceps, either holding him back or dragging him closer.

 “I’m _furious_ with you,” snarled Batman.

“So _punish_ me,” Clark threw back immediately, eyes blazing.

It was Batman who leaned in first to kiss him ferociously. Their teeth clacked together without finesse, mouths struggling for dominance, more of a wrestling match than a kiss. Clark’s lips were bruised when they came apart, but he was grinning from ear to ear.

“Stay. Here.” After a quick check revealed no casualties, Batman ziptied the remaining henchmen and left them in a pile.

“Transmission disrupted, Sir,” Alfred said in his ear. “The GCPD are locating and disarming the bombs as we speak. The city is safe.”

“Do you think he’ll be mad that I scratched the paint job?” Clark mused, as Bruce triple strapped him to the plane’s passenger seat before lowering himself into the pilot’s seat and running a diagnostic.

“It’s not Alfred you’ll have to worry about,” said Batman, firing up the engines to take them home. “I’m telling your Mom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and for sticking with the series! (Or not, it's totally cool if you're reading this by itself.)
> 
> In the AU fantasy in my head, Clark joined the Air Force shortly after high school. Since he's about 35 in Batman vs. Superman, I figure that gives him about 17 years to travel the world, become the dorky badass that he is, and have plenty of his own adventures/experiences before he meets Bruce. Therefore, he can hijack the Batplane and fly and/or crash it in a pinch.
> 
> Feedback always appreciated!!


	2. Gorilla Gang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark and Bruce have just begun dating, and Clark is still on his journalistic war against Batman's unethical crimefighting methods. With no idea that Bruce is Batman, Clark finds himself caught up in a bank robbery one day.

“This is Clark Kent, reporting live from the scene of an armed robbery at the Metropolis Bank. I’ve got visual confirmation of three…”

Clark peered around the desk he was huddled behind.

“… four armed men dressed in gorilla suits, strongly suspected to be the Gorilla Gang that’s been terrorizing the city streets this past month. We’ve got 8 hostages, no shots fired…”

_BANG_

“Ow,” said Clark, rubbing his ringing ears. “Correction, warning shot has been fired…”

 _“Kent_ ,” came Perry White’s irascible voice over Clark’s Blackberry. “ _Are you seriously using your phone to call my office during a bank robbery, instead of the_ goddamn police _? This ain’t a radio station, Smallville! Who do you think you’re broadcasting to?”_

“Well, can’t you patch me through to a radio station or something?” Clark mumbled, hand over ear to block out the sound of the gang leader’s colorful threats and the five-alarm screeching from the customer service rep. “Don’t we have a podcast? I’m pretty sure we have a podcast.”

_“Call the damn cops!”_

“Hey, Boss! We’ve got another back here!” shouted one of the ape men, thumping his way over to Clark’s hidey-hole.

“Uh-oh,” he whispered. “Perry, I gotta call you back…” He didn’t get the chance to hang up as synthetically furred arms yanked him out from under the desk, but he managed to smack the hidden panic button with his palm.

His phone clattered to the floor, still talking: “ _Don’t get killed, Kent! You’ve got two deadlines by Friday!”_

A heavy foot stomped on the phone, cracking it into a million pieces of useless plastic. Clark winced. That was the second phone he’d lost this year.

“Up against the wall with the rest of ‘em, pretty boy, or I’ll blow your ass off!” yelled the ape, voice sounding creaky with puberty underneath the rubber mask. He brandished a 9mm in Clark’s face instead of his ass, which was decidedly worse.

“Ok, ok! Don’t get agitated.”

“I’m not agitated, _you’re_ agitated!”

“Easy, easy!” said Clark, with the corresponding hand gestures.

The kid with the 9mm responded by punching him in the face for no reason.

It had been a _nice_ day, darn it. Good weather. Not a cloud in the sky. Bruce had taken him out to lunch, and then kissed him goodbye in front of the bank. He’d been picking out a new checkbook at the customer service desk (still hadn’t decided between Kermit or Garfield) when a gang of men in gorilla suits barreled in waving firearms and demanding cash, with all the subtlety and grace of… a gang of men in gorilla suits waving firearms and demanding cash. Then, the day had started going downhill.

“Hands up!” squeaked the costumed crook, gesturing his gun at Clark, who had his back to the wall and his hands cupped around his bleeding nose. He had no choice but to put his hands up. Blood trickled into his collar.

It had been a _nice_ shirt. Bruce had bought him that shirt, saying that it matched his eyes. (Which was sappy, but still sweet.)

“Sorry ‘bout the nose,” said the ape-man out of the corner of his mouth-hole, while his compatriots went about frisking the rest of the hostages for cellphones. “The Boss says I’m too soft with the hostages, so I’m trying to improve, y’num sayin’?”

“I totally understand,” Clark said dryly.

The supposed “Boss” of the gang shoved an aging, portly man to his feet and poked a shotgun to the small of his back. His tiny gold nametag read “Bank Manager.”

“Show us the safe!” barked Boss Gorilla, and frog-marched the manager towards the back of the building. The other two gang members waved guns at the hostages in an exaggeratedly thuggish fashion, belting out soundbites like “No funny  business!” and “Hands where I can see ‘em or I’ll blow your head off!”

“Look, why are you doing this?” said Clark to the kid in the ape suit who’d slugged him. “There’s ways to make money without going around hurting people. And I bet that suit’s not too comfortable either. Why do this?”

The kid scratched the top of his head like an actual monkey. “Well, to tell you the truth, I was actually gonna use my cut of the loot to maybe get into school. Y’know, read books, get smart. Get a legit job. Maybe study something like journalism.”

Clark smiled despite the bloody nose. “Journalism’s great.”

“Or banking. That way, I can get a job in a bank and maybe rob it from the inside, like an inside job, y‘num sayin’?”

“… Journalism’s _great_ ,” Clark reiterated. 

Across the room, the bank manager was fiddling with the combination lock to the safe, looking more annoyed than scared at the shotgun halfway up his spine. He was mumbling something about the good ol’ days when robbers were _polite_ and had the good manners to just slip the teller a threatening note instead of making such a _spectacle_.

“So, what’s your name?” Clark asked conversationally.

“Trigger.”

“Trigger… is that the name your mother gave you?”

“Nah, Mom calls me Tommy and sometimes Dumbass. After my old man. Tommy, I mean. Not Dumbass.”

“Right.”

“They call me Trigger cuz I shot off one of my toes once, ya know, for like the third time on my right foot. Cuz my hands are so _light on the trigger_ , see?” He twirled his gun idly.

Clark gulped. “Uh...”

The bank manager scowled, slipped on a pair of reading glasses and squinted at the combination dial, then made a few miniscule rotations. Finally, the safe clicked and swung open. The Boss Gorilla stuck his head in, whistled appreciatively. He herded the manager past Clark to the sit with the rest of the hostages, then did a double take when he saw Clark interviewing Trigger née Tommy with a handful of payment slips as notepaper and one of the pens that were chained to the bank counters. (He felt pretty bad about snapping the chain, but figured the bank probably had bigger problems at the moment.)

“So my old man leaves when I’m real young, and that’s messed up, y’num sayin’? I always felt this big hole in my chest, like I’m missing something cuz I grew up without a dad. Like I’ve been shot, and I’ve been shot before, so I know what it feels like, y’num sayin’?”

“Tommy, the fuck you doing?” yelled Boss Gorilla, giving the kid a hard smack across the side of the head so that his gorilla mask was knocked sideways, the eyeholes misaligned. He smacked Clark upside the head too, for good measure.

“ Call me Trigger, man!” Trigger whined. “I earned that name good and proper!”

“Shut up and help me with the cash.”

Trigger scrambled to obey.

Clark watched dizzily as they filled up duffle bags full of money from the safe, then scrambled back up front and start to empty out the cash drawers too. Situated more towards the back of the bank, he was the only one who heard a whisper of stiff fabric against the linoleum tiles, the muffled pressure of a heavy but silent tread. The only one who saw a flicker of deepest black.

“Hold your breath,” came a voice that was lower than distant thunder.

Clark looked up from nursing his face, just in time to see Batman throw a smoke grenade.

“Oh my-!”

He threw himself flat on the floor, arms over head, and felt a gust of wind pass over him. The next few minutes were filled with the sound of punches landing, confused yelling from the robbers, and panicked yelling from the hostages. Clark heard Trigger’s 9mm and Boss Gorilla’s shotgun discharge at least twice, deafeningly, but the crackle of plaster falling to the floor told him that the shots had been deflected towards the ceiling.

Sirens were approaching by the time the smoke cleared. He heard the _muah-muah_ of a man on a megaphone from outside, telling the robbers to come out with their hands up. He heard the patter of shoes as the hostages all filed out, then gingerly raised his head from his arms.

The four members of the Gorilla Gang were sitting back-to-back in the middle of the floor, triple-tied with steel wire, their furry legs splayed out. The remains of their guns lay disassembled in a neat pile next to them, along with their gorilla masks.

Clark stood and called out to Batman’s retreating back, challengingly, “Cleaning up your trash?”

The Bat, who’d been halfway out the back door, paused and turned.

“These are Gotham criminals,” said Clark, boldly walking closer. “Looks like you’ve been so brutal that you’ve chased the small-timers out of town and into Metropolis. How many have you branded this week? A dozen? More?”

Batman swiveled on his heels and took two steps towards Clark, who stopped abruptly, realizing that he was now within punching distance. Batman’s hand reached out, and he fought back a flinch, but it didn’t connect in a blow.

Instead, gloved fingers took his chin in a gentle but firm grip and slowly moved his face from side to side, as if Batman was checking for injuries. His thumb pressed against Clark’s chin like he was pressing a button. Something disturbed him about that touch, something flipped oddly in his stomach, but the feeling was gone as quickly as Batman was, disappearing like smoke in the wind.

He exhaled, not even realizing that he was holding his breath, as he watched the cape flick out of sight.

A whole line of police cars and reporters greeted him outside. He had to fight his way through microphones and flashing cameras to get to the street. Lois was there, looking frazzled.

“What happened?” she gasped, touching the sides of his face. “Perry was going off his head with something about a bank robbery and  you being an idiot. I ran down here as soon as I heard. Did you get pistol-whipped or something?”

“No, just regular-whipped,” Clark said mournfully. Pistol-whipped sounded a lot cooler.

A familiar face over her shoulder caught his attention, and he was sliding past Lois and walking into Bruce’s waiting arms. “Bruce!”

“You will not _believe_ what just happened,” he said, after the initial _hey there_ and _are you ok_.

“Try me,” said Bruce. He touched Clark’s chin, brushing over the dimple in the middle with his thumb, like he was pressing a button.

“You don’t seem too concerned,” said Lois, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the casual way Bruce was smiling.

Bruce leaned in and brushed his lips against Clark’s cheek. “Oh, I had a feeling he was safe the whole time.”

 

X

Epilogue:

 

Clark pushed the book on journalism across the metal table, careful not to make any sudden moves. There was a scary-looking prison guard looming over them, arms crossed.

“I got you some light reading,” said Clark.

“Thanks, man!” Trigger said cheerfully. He flipped through the pages of the book. “Hey, man, I read your article. Thanks for mentioning me, like five times. I have it cut out and taped to my cell wall.”

“You’re welcome,” said Clark. Perry had actually liked the article too. Said it was inspiring, the little piece about Trigger and his desires to go back to school.

Under the mask, the kid was actually quite nice-looking. He had a frowsy mop of blond hair, a sprinkle of freckles across his nose, and crooked teeth. He reminded Clark of a young Jimmy Olsen, if Jimmy Olsen ever wore a prison jumpsuit.

“And aw man, I can’t _believe_ I met Batman! That’s street cred right there, y’num sayin’? Getting taken down by Bats himself. That guy is the bomb. I dig his style. Not like, you know, a _lot_ , since he got us all in jail, but still. Hey, you think you can get an autograph from him for me?”

Clark laughed. “I don’t think I’ll be seeing him anytime soon, unless there’s another bank robbery.”

“Hey, I know a coupla guys on the outside. I can call them up and they can pull a bank job, and you can…”

Clark coughed and nodded meaningfully towards the book. “Yeah… did I mention that journalism’s _great_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!!! Feedback always appreciated!!


	3. Dip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scandal rocks Clark and Bruce's relationship. Sort of. This takes place after the events of Two Cities, when Clark and Bruce are happily hitched and living in Bruce's Lakehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I'm facing MASSIVE HIDEOUS writer's block for the main story (I'm so sorry!!!!!!), here is a crack-ish addition to this collection of interludes. 
> 
> No copyright infringement intended, no profits made!

Clark panted as he jogged the last few steps of his morning run, lungs full of fresh, crisp air. The trees that ringed Bruce’s Lakehouse were in full autumn blaze, completely saturated with color. The sky and water were both perfect icy blue, as still as twin mirrors.

He caught a flash of his own reflection as he entered through the glass side door, pink-faced and ruffle-haired. His glasses fogged up in the heated interior, his cheeks immediately feeling tender and moist.

“Morning,” he called cheerfully to Bruce at the dining table.

“Hmm,” Bruce replied noncommittally, buried behind a newspaper.

“Morning Alfred,” he greeted, heading into the kitchen in his socks.

“Good morning Master Clark,” said Alfred, triple-tasking with the French press, a hissing pan, and a cat that was wandering too close to the stove. Jim the gray tabby meowed and padded across the countertop towards Clark, then twisted like a comma back in Alfred’s direction, nose twitching, trying to decide between the provider of cuddles or the provider of food.  

“Eggs?” the butler offered.

“Oh, I can do that,” said Clark, reaching for the spatula.

“Please _sit,_ Sir,” said Alfred in a _my kitchen, my kingdom_ tone of voice. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Ok, thanks Alfred.”

Clark scratched Jim under the chin and joined Bruce at the table, helping himself to orange juice and toast. Bruce still hadn’t budged from behind the newspaper.

“How’s it looking today?” said Clark.

“Is it the gray hairs?” Bruce offered a non-sequitur, voice slightly muffled by newsprint. “Because I can have it dyed.”

“Um…?”

“Or is it the snoring? Is it because I snore?”

“I… hadn’t noticed.”

“Maybe it’s the late hours?”

“What’s going on?”

“The reason you’re cheating, apparently,” Bruce said flatly.

Clark crunched toast loudly, not quite sure what to make of that statement, then nearly choked as Bruce turned the paper around.

ADULTERY IN GOTHAM – shouted at him in accusing block letters. Underneath it: a fuzzy (but not fuzzy enough) photo of himself being dipped into a deep, steamy kiss by Batman. A hand curled gently at the side of the cowl. Cape fluttering romantically in the wind. Gotham skyline in the background.

“Oh no…” he groaned.

He remembered it clearly, the buzzy feeling of adrenaline after Batman had chased a midnight mugger off his tail, his own pleading voice, _Oh come on, just one kiss… who’s gonna see? There’s no one around here. Please? Dip me, like in the movies…_

Someone had seen. Someone with a camera and a twitchy trigger finger.

“Is the honeymoon over?” he read, his insides going gooey. “Recently married Clark Kent was caught liplocking with none other than the Knight of Gotham himself. Could this be the end of the whirlwind romance between the Average Joe from Metropolis and Billionaire Bruce Wayne? Has the extraordinary elopement that took the entire city by surprise now come to a terrible, bat-related end?”

The article took up most of the page, most of it superlatives and rhetorical questions. Wedged into the corner of the page was a headline about new strides in ovarian cancer research, and Clark felt a hot stab of anger that celebrity gossip had once again upstaged actual news.

“This is… bad.”

“Yep,” said Bruce, deliberately popping the “P.” He seemed highly amused for some reason. “I’d stay off social media for a while,” he cautioned, when Clark started clicking away at his Blackberry.

CLARK KENT IS A BUCK-TOOTHED HO – was the first thing he saw. “Ugh,” he groaned, and buried his face in his hands. “This is really bad.”

“Yes it is.”

“It’s my fault.”

“I agree.”

“Hey! You were there too. Home-wrecker.”

Bruce sighed faux-dramatically and took Clark’s hand. Looked him in the eye. “There’s a way to fix this. But you’re not going to like it.”

X

 

“Whew,” said Lois, wobbling slightly as Batman set her down on the graveled roof. “Thanks for that. Can’t even go night-jogging these days without getting mugged.” She brushed off her sweatpants. Checked that her wallet and phone were still intact. Peered up at Batman’s imposing figure. “Didn’t know you made house calls. What’re you doing in Metropolis?”

He didn’t _quite_ look sheepish, but he did a pretty good impression of it.

“I need a favor,” he said.

 

X

 

_The next morning…_

Bruce panted and wiped his face with a towel as he headed to the kitchen after his morning workout. Clark was already seated at the dining table, buried in a newspaper, a plate of eggs congealing next to him.

After retrieving coffee from the kitchen, Bruce plopped opposite his husband and said cheerfully, “Good morning.”

“Is it the glasses?” said Clark.

“Hm?

“I could always get Lasik, but Mom says they make me look smart.”

“That’s up to you, I guess?”

“Is it because I steal the covers?”

“Well…”

Clark snapped up the newspaper for him to see. A gloriously scandalous photo of Batman dip-kissing Lois Lane was splashed over the front page. He dropped it to the table, then picked up another paper. On it: a candid shot of Batman French-kissing Catwoman, who seemed way too into it. Flip. Another page: Batman making out with Poison Ivy while vines lashed his wrists together. It looked like amateur bondage porn.

“What was she trying to do, put you under her mind control?” inquired Clark. “Doesn’t she know you’re inoculated?”

Bruce shrugged and stirred his coffee. Swiped some marmalade onto a triangle of toast. “I may have neglected to tell her. She sure tried very hard.”

“And how did you even manage this one?” Clark demanded, holding up a picture of Batman dipping and kissing Bruce Wayne in a business suit.

“It wasn’t easy,” said Bruce, smiling wryly. “Had to bend over backwards.”

“Right.” Clark tossed aside the newspaper with an angry rustle. He caught a snatch of a printed sentence: “Sex-crazed bat vigilante on a city-wide kissing spree…”

“Looks like we’ll have to get a divorce then,” said Clark, a grin tugging the corner of his mouth.

“Looks like,” said Bruce, coming around behind his chair to slide hands down his shoulders, kissing his neck.

Clark sighed softly, smiling as Bruce nibbled on an ear. “No pre-nup, remember? I get half of what you own.”

“Surprise, I’m actually broke.”

“I get the Batmobile then,” said Clark, before Bruce’s mouth came down on his own, soft but demanding.

“Thanks for the damage control,” Clark whispered when they finally broke apart.

Bruce shrugged. “There’s no mess I won’t fix for you.”

“They’re calling you the Bat-Slut now. Are you ok with that?”

“I’ve been called worse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and sticking with me despite my tardiness!!!! (Sorry again!!!! I'm working on it!!!!) As always, feedback is highly appreciated!


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